


Face the Strange

by clandestineClairvoyant



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M, Other, back on my shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:31:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: Geralt really,really,hates portals.





	1. “Only death can finish the fight, everything else only interrupts the fighting.”  ― Andrzej Sapkowski

Watching Ciri go into the gate was like losing her all over again.

The color that erupted from the gate, barely contained and hissing with immense energy, was white. Even Geralt’s sharp eyes couldn’t pick out all the myriad colors that flashed and burned in the caul between the worlds, blazing a milky bright. Rather than heat though, cold whipped the stone and dirt around his feet into a fine dust, and Avallac'h’s breath behind him plumed out in wintery, crystalline gusts.

His heart broke all over again as Ciri’s outline wavered and faded into the distances behind the gate; Taller now, with that rolling gait that he didn’t even notice her learning until she’d started matching his steps. Stride for stride, on the path. He took one step, allowed himself that much, to pretend for a moment that he could go with her where she needed to go.

Avallac'h, for all his faults, said nothing, simply sweated under the strain of keeping the portal open and allowed Geralt this moment.

He’d never held her at night, told her everything would be okay. He’d never checked under her bed for monsters, or kept a candle lit at night. Dandelion had, on occasions when they’d stayed with him, sneaking into her room when he thought Geralt wouldn’t notice to read her bedtime stories or sing silly nonsense songs. It would have been hard _not_ to notice, with her girlish laughter trickling up through the floorboards and the cavernous halls of Kaer Morhen.

He wasn’t Dandelion though. He was a Witcher, and Geralt had given her a sword and a purpose and stood by her when she’d needed it.

Just for now, he pretended she needed it here. Pretended that he could follow, and stand by her and shore her up when she wavered. The wind stung his face and and froze to his beard and he had to fight every instinct in his body screaming at him to run and jump and _follow._

 

Avallac'h made a sound behind him, of pain, and suddenly there was an odd shimmer in the gate. Almost like a bubble, a sudden burst of iridescent color that squeezed itself up from the depths where Ciri had come from and-

 

Avallac'h gave a heaving gasp, and Geralt could feel him yank on the magic like a man hauling on a fishing pole, the strain humming in his teeth. _“Geralt!”_

There was a snap in the air, like the sound of a frozen tree branch breaking, and the bubble grew too big to be contained in the thin fabric of the portal.

 

It- like most things in Geralt’s life- blew up in his face.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Geralt was more experienced than most with portals.

As soon as his brain took the split second to realize what had happened- _Gods damned stupid, fucking portals-_ he drew in a breath of the freezing sub-arctic temperature between worlds and held it, spinning wildly and feeling like he might vomit.

_’What happens to puke between worlds? Does it come out with me or somewhere else?’_ He thought a little bemusedly, before there was a hot feeling of tightness stretched across him, like he had hit a blanket of some sort, everything too bright to make out what it was-

And then he was _through,_ snapping through something and-

Still falling.

The world rushed by in an emerald rush and glow, crackling sky jagged with what looked like green lightning, and dark obsidian rock rising up quickly to meet him. _Too_ quickly. He thought, as fast as it had taken him to assess the situation in the portal, barely a second of time before he landed on his head. As soon as he figured out which way was up, he twisted light and as neat as a cat, putting his feet below him and praying that the ground wasn’t so jagged as to shatter him to pieces as soon as he hit.

In all it was maybe a dozen or more feet he fell, which wasn’t too much when Geralt was prepared for it. But he wasn’t, and he hit hard. His ankle rolled but didn’t snap, Witcher’s bones being made of sterner stuff, but something pulled painfully with the nerve-watering vibration that said he may have hurt it just as severely as a break. He rolled onto his shoulder with the momentum- and then kept rolling.

The slight incline brought him colliding up against a blackened face rocks, the breath he’d been trying to hold expelling out with a _whoosh_ and a grunt of pain. His arm kept his head from dashing itself open against a jagged edge; at the expense of his wrist, which _did_ snap unfortunately. The pain was immediate and blinding, although he very determinedly did not make any noise. Simply let the icy cold shock of it wash over and through him, accepting it and barely flinching. A quick glance once his head stopped spinning showed no bone sticking out of the skin, and that was most all he needed to know.

He picked himself gingerly up, relieved to find that the air wasn’t in fact made of poisonous gas, or too hot to breathe, or _underwater_ , as was often the case when world-jumping. Geralt took a sniff, grimacing and beginning to undo his belt with his good hand, setting his back to the cliff-face to survey the world he found himself in.

The sky was green, cloudy like the surface of the ocean and swirling with magic. He knew it was magic, could smell it as it prickled the hair on the back of his neck, tingled against his skin, and arced over the sharp points of his teeth. Rocks floated on the horizon, no doubt unmoored by the shitty grasp of physics this world seemed to have, and in the distance a dark city stretched across the horizon, a shimmering nightmarish heat mirage.

It looked like it rivaled the skyline of Vizima, larger even than Nilfgaard, impossible looking peaks looking like the spun-sugar constructions that he’d seen at the feasts in Toussaint. Fit for the dessert table, is what he thought, craning his neck to look over the jagged skyline.

He’d been in places just as strange. A foggy alien world with strange polyps and poisonous pockets of gas; the deep dark bottom of an almost entirely acidic ocean where his ear drums had ruptured as soon as he’d been thrust into the cold deep, and had prevented him from hearing anything Ciri said for a week; He’d landed on a world once where the entire surface of it had been melted and heated into a reflective shine that had almost permanently blinded him- Some activity of its sun had caused the entire thing to be turned into diamond.

But they hadn’t made him feel nearly as wary, nearly as on edge as the dream-like quality of this place he found himself.

There was movement, but it wasn’t close enough to be a bother yet, so Geralt concentrated on his wrist and keeping an eye on his field of view for any sneaky monsters. For lack of any wood, he made do with two short lengths of draconid bone, about eight or so inches each, and lashed himself a makeshift splint. It would have to be reset, but until then it would have to do.

_’Most expensive splint I’ve ever made.’_ Geralt thought wryly, tightening the belt with a grimace, and tucking the loose end in on itself. He’d been planning on selling the bone for a few dozen crowns each. As it was, it was the only thing he had that was useable for a splint. There didn’t seem to be any wood, no trees, nothing he could chop to fit with his blade.

Investigating his pouch for the bone, he was unsurprised to find more than half of his potions smashed in the journey- Whether from his fall or from the pressure of traveling through worlds, he didn’t know. His skin was certainly still stinging smartly where it had been exposed, although the redness was fading. Dumping out the worst of the smashed glass and liquid was the work of a few moments, salvaging the rest of his supplies and grimacing at the smell.

He was left with a few vials of White Honey, some Raffords and Swallow, and two of Killer Whale that were next to useless at the moment. He had some supplies to make more, but not much. His crossbow had shattered, but his bombs were also intact. When you carried volatile accelerants on your person, you generally took care to make sure they survived the trip. He was grateful, tucking them away from any acidic remnants that might remain in his satchel that would eat away at the glass.

Along with his meagre potion’s was his entire set of oils, thankfully also intact, a few runes, his sword, enough rations for a few days, and half a skin of water.

The water was a chief concern. Most of his potions would only serve to dehydrate him, and the bottle of liquor he had would only do worse.

_’Last resort.’_ He thought cheerlessly, allowing himself two gulps of water before stowing his skin away next to the wine. He figured he’d make it a week without water- Almost a month without food, although he probably wouldn’t be mobile after a week. Without an active gate, Avallach had nothing he could use to pinpoint him, even if the tricky bastard was _looking._ His best hope was Ciri. There was next to no doubt in his mind she’d defeat the Frost and come home, triumphant and grinning that shit eating grin every time she thought she’d proved someone wrong. It’d take time though, and more time after her victory for her to find him.

The thought that she might not be able to didn’t bear thinking about, so he simply didn’t. Things generally worked out despite the both of their tendency to lose eachother. He just had to be patient. She’d been working on traveling between the worlds since he saw her last, for years even, and he had to trust that she was more skilled than that girl he had left.

 

Backtracking to where he’d come from only took a few moments, and when he looked up he saw the ruin of an elvhen gate he’d come through, almost horizontal and already floated a ways from where he’d originally come out. It jutted out from an outcropping of rock that almost seemed to hum, dark and petrified weeds that resembled fossils climbing the archway like clinging fingers. It was dark and dormant, so he left it, tense with worry when he realized it wouldn’t be a simple matter of simply finding the exit that was usually built nearby. It could be anywhere.

 

For lack of anything else to do, Geralt drew his silver sword, and he started walking.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The things looked like- Well, they didn’t look like much of anything.

Amorphous wisps of dark, they came from the rocks and crevasses, seeming hesitant to get near him. Whether it was the shine of his blade, or his walk, or some other reason that dissuaded them, Geralt didn’t know. But they kept their distance at first, watching without any visible eyes, flickering from shape to shape almost faster than Geralt’s cautious gaze could track. One moment they almost looked like a nekker; the next some kind of large spider.

_’Psychic aspect.’_ He thought grimly, watching as one of them stretched up to look like Ciri for a moment, coltish and young and face twisted in hate. It lost the thread almost immediately, and scuttled back with a chittering noise of frustration and still no shape.

He was relieved. An angry hateful she-witcher was not something he wanted to face with two limbs out of commision.

It was slow going, making his way across the terrain with a broken wrist and sprained ankle. Only an idiot would put their sword away when being stalked by those things, and it made climbing near to impossible with no working hands. Dream-like paths littered with impossible buildings and dark, crystalline structures were good for walking on, but it seemed they were also more densely populated.

Something like a bear slept off to the side of the first crossroads he came to, almost as big as a forktail, with ugly growths protruding from its scabby, necrosed looking fur. As he drew near Geralt felt a wave of weariness over take him, one of the things saucer-sized yellow eyes cracking open with a sinister rumble.

His limbs leadened, eyes growing heavy, and it took until he felt a sharp pain from his broken wrist to realize he was lowering himself to the ground to go to sleep. With an effort he shook it off and backed carefully away, medallion humming even stronger than it had for the past few hours. The thing seemed too bothered to follow, simply rolling over with a snort and a rumble to doze back off. Geralt took a different path.

Again he thought he saw a person, thin with a whip-like tail, looking almost like a succubus. They stalked him almost longer than the little creatures, following the path and drawing longing looks over his shoulder that left him confused and muzzy. His medallion burned hot and it drew him on, brow furrowed in concentration and sweat popping on his neck and cold on the small of his back. Eventually he drew some ogroid oil and whet his blade, and when he looked again it was gone. The little shapeless things were back however, and they looked closer than before.

 

He pressed grimly onward.

 

When he finally met someone, in this shitty desolate world, of course it was a sorcerer.

 

Geralt pricked his ears as the sound of battle met them, and walked onward faster, curious despite himself to meet whatever kind of denizens this world had to offer that weren’t faceless formless monsters, or mysteriously tantalizing figures in the distance.

A sizeable outcropping of rock blocked his way, and by the time he made it over, panting in a combination of pain and exertion, half the fight was won.

A man spun in the center of the clearing, an intricate staff in his hand and a look on his face that Geralt uncomfortably recognized. He had the blank, weary look of someone who had quit fighting long ago, and was simply going through the motions. His face stone-like, his spell casting mechanic in nature. He had a dark unkempt beard, and worn looking armor that had embellishments of fur that made it look almost Skellige in style. Blood flowed heavily from a wound on his side, but he fought on regardless, casting invisible bands of force that crushed the little skittering figures of the same creatures that had been stalking Geralt for hours. They had form now, some resembling giant spiders, some of them stretching up to resemble a man in armor and hissing out sibilantly illegible insults.

The man crushed one with a visible look of revulsion, the resignation on his face giving way to a flicker of furious emotion, and Geralt decided perhaps he needed a hand. It might not be worth the energy, but damn. If nothing else he'd kill for a conversation, or some context as to where he was.

He managed the slope with little trouble, and once he’d reached the stretch of battleground, decapitated five of the little things before the man looked up and realized he was there. Even one-handed and with a limp he put his sword through seven more, letting the sorcerer take care of the rest; although it was clear by the slump of his shoulders and the way he staggered once the battlefield was clear that he was exhausted. 

The last of them died, curling onto themselves like giant ugly spiders, and Geralt ignored the throbbing in his wrist and ankle long enough to wipe his blade. He'd barely worked up a sweat, but the stranger looked as if it had taken every last ounce of effort he'd had in him.

“Fuck.” Sure enough the man leaned against his staff, casting a wary eye over Geralt and frowning. Now that he was closer Geralt could smell the magic on him, almost lost in the ambient smell of ozone this place was drenched in. He smelled like blood, and the tingling hard heavy smell of force magic that Yennefer was fond of using when she was feeling particularly gory. He was slightly shorter than Geralt, and slimmer, although the bulk of his armor hid most of it. Dark and leaden in color, like the original color had completely faded away with repeated repairs and beatings. He had dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes, as dark as his armor, a pale wanness suffusing him that seemed like it came from a very long stretch of battle. Judging by what he’d seen of the area so far, Geralt wasn’t sure how the man was still alive, magic or no magic.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you’re not a demon are you?” The man said, after a brief moment of staring in blank appreciation.

“I’m not entirely sure what a demon is, but no.” Geralt said drily, watching in bemusement as the creatures he’d beheaded fizzled away into nothing, leaving his blade clean and the ground bare. Spectral in nature, perhaps? They didn’t have an animal smell to them, although his blade met more resistance than he would with a ghost.

“Well.” The man slumped further, and Geralt thought perhaps he might be a little delirious. “Then, not to be rude, but-” He straightened enough to run a hand through his sweat slicked and greasy looking hair, looking faintly hysterical and red-rimmed around the eyes. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“Same as you I’m guessing.” Geralt ventured, sheathing his sword and trying to look as unassuming as possible. The man tracked his hands with a paranoid air, tense and almost trembling on his feet. The splash of color across his nose- what looked like some kind of birth-mark- looked garish against the paleness of blood loss and dehydration. “Trying to stay alive. I fell through a portal. Don’t suppose the same happened to you?”

“Of a sort.” The man stayed silent a moment, blinking slowly and looking at Geralt, before he seemed to shake himself, drawing some sort of sense around him like a cloak. “Right. I’m Hawke. Garrett Hawke. Pleased to die with you.”

Geralt blinked back just as slowly, attempting to project an air of calm. It wasn't hard. “Geralt. Of Rivia. What makes you think we’re going to die?” He asked, not bothering to dispute it, simply curious.

Garrett gave a hysterical sounding laugh, propping himself up on his staff, and then clutching his wound with a shocked sounding gasp when it put a strain on his ribs. “ _Fuck._ Shit.” He licked his lips, dry and scabbed, and gave Geralt a curious look once he’d regained his breath, a strange, darkly amused grin lingering around his face.

“Because we’re in the Fade my friend. Didn’t you know that when you came here?”

“I’ve gone to plenty of worlds without knowing where I’m going.” Geralt said philosophically. Which was true enough. “Listen, are you alright? I have something that might help.”

“Andraste’s tits.” Garrett sighed, and nodded, letting himself slump to the ground and dropping his staff in a controlled fall to clatter to his side. “Yeah, might as well. Not to let myself drag it out, but perhaps the two of us can put our heads together and figure out a way out of this.” He dragged a hand over his face, the rasp of his calloused hands over his beard and the crust of blood around his mouth drawing a grimace on his part.

“Been here awhile?” Geralt ventured, kneeling and drawing one of his precious swallow potions out of his pack. He wet a cloth with it, and ignored Hawke’s ginger hiss when he pressed it to his side. “Better get this chestplate off of you and treat it properly. Probably need stitches.” What sort of diseases you might pick up in this place, he wasn’t sure. It smelled fairly sterile. There wasn’t a lot of organic matter for bacteria to eat. Whatever the creatures that inhabited it were, they sure weren’t organic, and so there probably wasn’t anything in the way of a biological waste. Or a food chain for that matter- Although maybe the big ones ate little ones?

He decided to stop thinking about it before he gave himself a head ache.

“Don’t bother.” Hawke grimaced, and took the cloth, nodding his thanks to Geralt when he handed him the potion, and downed half of the bottle like an unruly shot of whiskey. The slide wasn’t exactly pleasant Geralt knew from experience, and sure enough, Hawke grimaced at the aftertaste. “If we don’t get out of here, I’d rather let it take it’s course. You’re not from Thedas?”

“No.”

Although Hawke’s entire demeanor seemed to invite some kind of detail, Geralt ignored him, helping the man to standing, letting him use his shoulder for the moment it took him to get his feet under him and retrieve his staff from the ground. He smelled ripe, make no mistake, the heavy and sour smell of fear and sickness causing Geralt to wrinkle his nose, although he didn’t say anything. Hawke made a shocked noise as he noticed the rather awkward angle Geralt was holding his ankle at, as well as the splint. “Here now! You’re injured.”

“It’ll be fine. Witcher’s heal fast.”

Hawke blinked absently at him as they began moving, Geralt shoring up the man’s unsteady gait and steadily feeding him the remainder of the potion to put some color back in his cheeks. Already he was making idle plans of what to do with his new companion; whether he’d eventually have to give him a quick clean death and press on without him, or if Geralt could manage some sort of miracle. He liked his odds on the miracle, and so he got Hawke to drink the rest of the potion while his bow wrinkled in befuddlement, coughing and pushing Geralt’s hand away as a thought overtook him.

 

“Wait.” Hawke wiped the back of his mouth with a fist. “What the fuck’s a Witcher?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. “Know when a legend becomes a prophecy? When it gains believers.” – Corinne

Dorian was firmly convinced that this whole endeavor was pointless.

Even more so when Bull plucked one of the largest spiders he’d ever seen in his life out of his hair, in a friendly sort of way. This was keeping in mind that the jungles of Tevinter weren’t exactly known for their demure arachnid sizes, and Dorian was no wilting flower when it came to the grossly monstrous or macabre.

Dorian didn’t shriek, but there was a very long, protracted shudder that started at his feet and ended at his scalp. His shoulders stiffened, and he made a mental vow to take a bath the _moment_ they made it back out, regardless of whoever was hovering in the baths like some pale sweaty _ghost_.

Bull tossed the spider gently off into the darkness and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder as they continued, but it did little to to comfort him.

The entrance to the makers-damned tunnel network was by the hot spring pools anyway, and it wouldn’t be too much of a jaunt when they were finished. Iron Bull loved baths, and would probably convince Cooper to join them, and Solas of course enjoyed communal hot springs baths as much as the next elf. (Sera being one very loud, obnoxious and occasionally smelly exception.)

It sounded heavenly. He was lost in thought briefly as they trooped down a spiralling staircase, crumbling and hard to navigate in parts, stooping lower where poor Bull had to bend down. It was scattered with silt, heavy enough where when Trevelyan’s foot caught at it, it sent Dorian into a fit of coughing.

“Maker’s breath, they really haven’t cleaned up down here at all have they?” He choked out, glaring at Cooper and digging a kerchief from one of his many pockets to cover his face with. He couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the thick layer of dust coating everything as they came out in a larger hall, boots crunching over rubble and debris. It might have been magnificent once, the great yawning stretches of the catacombs below Skyhold, before time and the cold had taken it’s toll. White marble was now turned gray with moisture and grime, and the elegant carvings were rendered indistinct with age, edges rounded and illegible in spots.

Some of the crystalline elvhen lights still worked, glowing when Solas ran a careful, reverent hand over them, and Dorian could almost see what it would have looked like in the height of its day. Peaceful. Elegant. He always felt uncomfortable in places like this, tagging along behind Solas and watching the quiet look of peace on his sharp, intelligent face.

(Similar to how Dorian felt when someone brought up the subject of slavery, he supposed. Or his rich inheritance, or, well. That one incident where Cooper had slowly had to explain the concept of _milking cows_ to him, Maker, he didn’t realize quite how _often_ it had to be done until Cooper was earnestly explaining with one hand on one of the giant ugly beasts.)

“No. They likely won’t for awhile- There’s other more pressing concerns to manage than old elvhen catacombs.” Solas said distractedly, frowning in concentration. Dorian knew if Solas had his way the whole place would be sealed off forever- Or until all the humans fucked off and died. Whatever happened first. The only thing that had prevented him from actually _doing_ it so far was the reason they were slogging through in the first place; the rest of the Inquisition being busy with renovations. Some sort of disturbance in the Fade, or a rift, that was giving poor Trevelyan fits at night and Solas a line of stress between his brows. It had drawn the two of them down, with Dorian and Iron Bull playing cheerful chaperones.

Dorian hadn’t noticed much besides a few odd dreams, but Cole had been beside himself with worry even more so than Trevelyan, and his fondness for the boy had guilted him into volunteering. Besides, it wasn’t like he was doing much else but attempting to drink Skyhold dry and fiddle with Solas’ magical lab while the man wasn’t looking.

 

(Also trying firmly _not_ to think of Trevelyan’s sweet smile and the horrible ramifications there-of. Or the way he always asked Dorian to join him in the field, making idle comments of how he’d _miss_ him if he wasn’t there, causing Dorian to tip over the nearest stack of books. Or the way he would trip into Dorian’s alcove to ask him some stupid question that was always endearing, and _obviously_ a transparent excuse just to spend time with him, drawing disgusted tsking noises from Lelliana’s aides amongst the shelves who could _mind their business thank you,_ because he’s _off limits,_ the man is a _holy symbol,_ pull yourself together-)

 

So here they were, like interdimensional masons to patch the damned hole.

 

Great marble halls echoed grandly as they walked on intact flooring, then narrowed to intimate, familial mausoleums as they descended deeper, scripted in ancient elvish across the marble and dawnstone. The few parts Dorian could make out on the doorways and tombs seemed to be clan lineages, or familial names. He wasn’t very clear on how elven family units were set up, let alone those from thousands of years ago, so he wasn’t sure what they said. It could be a recipe for fig pudding for all he knew.

 

But here the ruins had suffered more than they’d previously encountered, parts completely shut off from structural damage, and stalactites beginning to form on the walls and ceilings where moisture had begun its long task of destroying what mortals had built. Mushrooms the size of dinner plates sprouted, rather surprisingly considering how cold it was on the mountain.

Anything that could thrive in this blasted cold was suspect, and Dorian was sure to give them a wide, distasteful berth.

Cooper was up ahead, a torch in his hand and an eager look of discovery on that stupid, _stupid_ handsome face.

The templar turned to say something to Solas, grinning and laughing at something the elf said, profile warm in the torchlight, highlighting that noble brow, the scattering of stubble across his jaw and crooked front tooth. His nose was a lost cause, broken repeatedly by falls, and blows, and busting his face against his own shield before he’d given up on the idea of shields entirely and started simply using a two handed greatsword. It was charming, he thought, when Cooper tilted his head in that doggish way he had, like he had to do it to hear what people were saying better. With all the head damage the poor lad had taken, he probably _did._

“You’re drooling.” Bull helpfully pointed out, and Dorian- _who was doing no such thing because he had checked_ -glared.

“ _Yes_ thank you Bull. Spider’s, dribbling on myself, is there nothing you’re incapable of fixing?” He asked drily, swiping at his mouth casually once Bull had turned away. Just to be sure.

“A card game for one.” Iron Bull sighed sadly. “Varric’s taken me for all I’ve got, and I know the little bastard’s cheating.” He ducked under a low door, the light from Solas and Trevelyan temporarily disappearing up ahead and prompting Dorian to light his own staff with a roll of his eyes. “Be better if you were there. Then the winnings would be split two ways.”

Dorian made a rude noise. “I’d like to keep what coin I have, thank you very much.”

Rather than the cool minty green of Solas’ fade glow, or the flickering orange of the torch, Dorian’s staff lit itself a rather sinister shade of purple, crackling occasionally in fitful little starts as the ball of energy dipped down too low and made contact with the conductive material of his staff. Bull eyed it and gave a strange grin, which Dorian ignored with a sniff. Vivienne’s, he knew, was a very regal looking white, and Dorian couldn’t help but be jealous. White went with everything.

“Thanks.”

“Make no mention of it.” Dorian answered distractedly, pulling ahead. Now that they were getting closer, he supposed even his dull sense could pick up some sort of… Something. You weren’t much of a mage if you could let Fade disturbances walk up and knock you on the head, after all. A tenseness made the air thick, hard to breathe not because of the consistency, but because of the labor of his own lungs. It wasn't an uncommon effect he noticed when near rifts, or- occasionally when the lad was upset- Cole.

The further they went down the steps, avoiding crumbles walls and pools of icy moisture, the stronger the feeling got. A trembling in the fabric of reality sent shivers across the back of his neck, like a cool finger touching the-

_“Bull.”_ Dorian yelped, jumping forward, and spinning to glare at the shit eating grin Iron Bull was giving him, finger still outstretched and glistening with spit. He looked down-right sinister in the glow with his horns and sharp teeth bared in good humor, and Dorian huffed irritably.

The sound echoed down the hall, and ahead Cooper turned, frowning in puzzlement. Solas kept walking, completely indifferent, and passed the human with a small bit of effort. The passage was growing smaller, and Cooper Trevelyan was rather a large man. Shoulders for days and all that. Luckily, elves were small, and by the time Trevelyan had doubled back to defend Dorian’s honor by virtue of _attempting_ to get Iron Bull in a headlock in the small hallway, the light from his staff was fading down into the dark.

“Brutes.” Dorian sniffed, checking himself again for anything Bull might have snuck into his collar or hair, before leaving the two of them to it and following the weak glow of Solas’ fadelight.

A grinning Cooper had managed to get Bull on the ground as he rounded the corner, his legs around the man’s neck and arm twisted up along his side in an impressive chokehold. Bull was laughing fit to burst around tears of pain, and was already halfway to getting loose, a fistful of disgusting debris and mushrooms ready in his free hand that was no doubt going to be shoved onto Trevelyan momentarily.

It was rather… Nice, that Bull bothered trying to cheer the Inquisitor up. The young man was barely 20, for all he was the size of a Makers-damned barn and a natural murder machine. If the jokes and ribbing was occasionally at Dorian’s expense- Well, he supposed he would have to tolerate it. Bull teased and he flirted, but oddly Dorian enjoyed it. It reminded him of Felix, the easy back and forth, even when the qunari drove him up the wall and made him flush brighter than he had since he was thirteen. (The Iron Bull was still reigning king of the dirty joke, much to Sera and Varric's delight.)

 

Besides, Dorian thought with a blush as he took the brighter of two passages to follow his companion, Cooper would no doubt apologize very earnestly on Bull’s behalf and offer to make it up to Dorian in some charming matter even if he wasn't particularly irritated.

 

The hall grew colder the further they descended, and Dorian shivered, not cheered at all by the glow of his staff. He rounded the corner, looking briefly over his shoulder for Bull and Cooper and wondering if perhaps he should go back and check on them. Or just walk between them, and let Bull break any spider webs he might walk into.

 

“It’s what you get for fiddling with necromancy.” Came the absent comment as he rubbed a bare shoulder in the eerie still dark, and Dorian almost jumped out of his skin in surprise.

 

“ _Venedhis._ Is everyone just trying to scare the life out of me today?” Dorian put a hand to his chest, feeling it galloping wildly out of control under his tunic, and glared at Solas. The elf looked serene, standing by an old looking archway that led to nowhere with an air of concentration, frowning. But Dorian was growing to recognize his moods, and he could swear there was a hint of smugness about the tilt of his head.

Bastard.

“Your fade-glow. The purple is very unnerving, I'm sure you've been told." Solas arched an eyebrow. "You’re very jumpy for someone who regularly re-animates the dead.” He observed drily, barely glancing over. His small, delicate hands were stretched out into the air of the archway, a narrow look of concentration on his face and a faint venomous green glow emanating from his fingers and palms. The Fade-mage sniffed the air, catlike features wrinkled in puzzlement, and then turned to investigate the crystal set into the wall nearby, letting the glow linger where he’d left it in front of the carved stone and almost dismissing Dorian's presence entirely. The device he was poking at was surrounded by some kind of elvhen apparatus; the crystal set into the ornately sculpted heart of it was suspiciously dull and cracked for all it was apparently supposed to be part of elvhen architecture. Known to last, that stuff.

“Yes, well. It’s when I’m _not_ trying to animate anything that sudden noises takes me by surprise.” Dorian said sulkily as he came fully into the roomy atrium, casting his own senses over the archway on the opposite wall, although he doubted he’d find anything Solas wouldn’t.

Time magic, yes. All day. He could cast a haste that would fit five days into and hour and barely break a sweat. Lightning? Of course. Making a venatori magister that Bull had twisted the head off dance like an Orlesian smuggler at an art gallery? Had done, and will most _certainly_ do again as soon as Vivienne stopped being such a bore about the whole thing.

But the fade? Not his wheelhouse.

He ignored the idle thoughts of school, and the classes he found himself wishing he’d paid more attention in; because _that_ led dangerously close to thoughts of Felix, and he wasn’t prepared to prod that sore tooth quite yet.

Dorian made a brief effort of will, frowning and summoning a wisp from the fade to inhabit his light so as to leave his hands free. It floated up, dimming to a faint lavender that pulsed as the little spirit’s interest faded and waned. Dorian left it to it’s hover in the corner of the room, and stepped to Solas’s side, rubbing a thoughtful scratch through his beard. The archway was a beautiful thing, even with most of the etching's and carving worn with age. There was still the sharp edge of an occasional rose petal, and the twisting gnarled knots of vines that looked eerily realistic in the flattering glow of their magic. Petals came off of it like real flowers, some as big as his palm and dripping in berries and flowers. He even saw a delicately carved bee, sheltered from erosion in the cup of a flower and wings almost coming alive in the flickering light.

 

He investigated as well as he could, but after a certain point even Dorian had to admit he was just keeping Solas company. He was no expert in the Fade although he liked to flatter himself and think after all their ventures he probably knew more than most. He _had_ managed to make something sparkle, though. A spectrum of magic he cast over the dull crystal caused it to flare slightly and crackle the air, igniting molecules in a charming little glimmer. But then he had to be flapped away by an irate Solas, who moved him into a corner and informed him to _stop touching things._

After a few moments of silence- Dorian nursing his wounded pride, and the elf casting him the occasional baleful glare- Solas finally managed to break the tedium with a sigh. It perked him up in his corner, where he’d been idly cupping his fade-light from hand to hand in a bored manner. The archway was glowing gently, and if he squinted he thought he might be able to see a greenish ripple over the blank expanse of wall behind it.

 

“Well? What do you think?” Dorian came closer when he wasn’t immediately shooed away, interested despite himself. The Fade light hovered by his shoulder, as if intrigued itself, and he tapped it gently down into his collar to keep it from getting in the way.

There was a scuffle and a cheerful impressed whistle from the doorway behind them before Solas could answer. When Dorian turned to check, the Iron Bull and Cooper were significantly dirtier than they had been, grime sticking the Inquisitor’s dark reddish hair up in unattractive tufts, and a scrape on his cheek coming up slightly bruised.

Bull had a bloody nose and looked inappropriately excited about it.

“Yeah. What’s giving _this guy_ the heebie-jeebies and the kid nightmares?” Bull went to get Cooper in another affectionate headlock, but he dodged, grinning and striding instead to Dorian’s side where him and Solas were inspecting the arch-way. He was warm against Dorian side even in his armor, the heat of exertion flushing his cheeks and warming his skin. Dorian tried nto to sniff the man like an old pervert. _Kaffas._

He felt his heartbeat flutter in his chest the way it did every time Cooper did something unexpected like this, as the Inquisitor gave him an almost shy smile once he noticed Dorian looking, all sweet dimples and dirt smeared across his cheek. He snagged Dorian’s trailing sleeve to give it an affectionate tug. “Alright there?” It was as if Dorian's heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounded, and then began continuing on in an embarrassed over time to make up for it’s lapse.

“Quite. Just giving Solas a bit of expertise.”

Solas scoffed, and Dorian smiled winningly at him.

Solas gave them all a scathing look as Bull came to Cooper’s other side, nostrils flaring and sniffing in an interested way. His brow furrowed, and Dorian could see him grow more serious even as Solas opened his mouth to speak. “Yes. Well, if I’m correct, there’s something on the other side that’s causing the disturbances. I can feel something pushing- A spirit of some sort, if I'm not mistaken.”

Trevelyan nodded slowly. “Makes sense. After all, it’s certainly nothing on _our_ end.” He gave the matter some thought. "Have you ever felt this before?"

"Yes." Solas's face was carefully blank. "When you were pulled into the fade at Therinfall. Cole made a similar attempt to contact our group, although at the time I had simply thought it to be a weak demon taking advantage of the havoc Envy had wrought on the veil between the worlds." Trevelyan made a surprised grunt.

"Spirit or demon, doesn't change the fact that it's dangerous." Bull pointed out, looking more solemn about the matter. "Why bother?"

"Why bother indeed." Cooper murmured thoughtfully, almost as if to himself. He rubbed a hand through the short shorn hair on the sides of his head, frowning, before reaching a cautious hand out to feel along the archway. It didn't do much but make the ripples of green slightly brighter.

"Can you contact whatever it is? Get a better idea of what it wants?" Bull didn't vocally protest, but Trevelyan threw him a look all the same when the qunari's shoulders went tense. "Relax Bull. I'm just as wary as demons as you are. But I'm pretty confident in two things." He grinned and thumped a gauntleted fist into the flaming sword on his chest. "Smiting demons and shutting rifts."

Solas nodded in satisfaction. “I will attempt to feel whatever it is on the other side- Inquisitor, if I could borrow you for a moment?” Solas tucked his staff in the crook of his arm, the gnarled wood resting comfortable as Solas shook his sleeves out, as fussy as a matron about to roll pastry. Dorian tried to quell the uneasy feeling in his chest, eyeing the archway mistrustfully.

Cooper raised an eyebrow, but complied, lending one of his large hands to Solas, who carefully held it in his left, in order to raise his right towards the archway. A hum came in the air more forceful than the tentative proddings Dorian had witnessed before hand. “I should be able to peer on the other side, while not alerting whoever it is." A brighter flicker of light, and Solas frowned in concentration even as Cooper's brow furrowed and his mark glowed a steady bright green below the metal of his gauntlet. "Steady now.” Dorian held his breath despite himself as the elf let the energy trickle out. Steady, slowly; and then faster as it didn’t have any further effect, prickling along Dorians skin and striking a note in the back of his head that twanged, that he knew Bull couldn’t hear. It made him flinch, an ache in his teeth as the magic pried something lose, and he thought he saw Solas's ears twitch.

Trevelyan, a Templar as well as the Inquisitor, probably felt it as well. He shook his head like a dog with water in it’s ears, frowning, and reaching up with his free hand to touch gingerly at his face. As if he was feeling an uncomfortable pressure in his sinus.

Then there was a distinctive _glimmer,_ a cracking sound like ice breaking, and Solas gasped.

 

“Open it," He said sharply, suddenly. "The rift, _open it now Inquisitor.”_

 

He actually threw his staff down to the side, and Dorian startled worse than anyone there, flaring his staff anxiously and preparing to fight. “Are you _insane?_ We’re trying to close the bloody things, not open more!” He pointed out, trying not to sound accusing.

Solas ignored him, both hands raised and the archway flaring brighter, energy whirling in it. “Trevelyan, you need to do it now. Focus and I will _help_ , but if you don’t do it now-”

Bull drew his sword, apparently unworried. But Dorian could see the set to his shoulders, the predatory way he sniffed the air and frowned, stepping back and giving himself space to swing. He got the same look as they approached a cave that had something in it, an instinct. There was a tension in the air as Solas primed the gate, shoving at Cooper to get the slack-jawed man _moving._ The spell that settled over the archway was a wild one, sloppy in Solas’s hurry-

But it didn’t need to be neat and tidy, because the Inquisitor was raising his marked hand with a grimace-

“I swear to the Maker, if demons come out I will _end_ you Solas-” Dorian ground out, low and dangerous as he readied a necrotic bomb to lob at the first thing that poked it’s head out.

The air ripped open emerald and the sudden light in the dim atrium was almost blinding for a moment. Wind, and howling anguished screeching poured out like a solid thing, causing the four of them to squint and flinch as the pressure and noise pressed against their ears. It was louder and more powerful than any other rift they’d encountered although the size was smaller, sucking the cool underground air out of the mausoleum-like room and replacing it with a crackling, humid wind like the breath of a great magical beast.

The edges of it almost appeared golden, which Dorian hadn't seen before, spinning like water being sucked down a drain as the emerald crackled from the center.

A roar echoed out, and shapes moved behind the thin surface of the portal. It was like staring through a stained glass window, all warped images and shifting color. Mostly green. Something many legged moved towards the archway, chittering in a poor approximation of a human cackle, and Dorian grimaced in a full-bodied disgust as he made out the shape of one of those disgusting fear demons that had plagued their journey into the Fade at Adamant fortress.

Cooper let his hand drop, panting and sweat beading on his forehead. The rift kept spinning merrily along without the help, although thankfully it did not grow any larger. Even as the templar drew his great two-handed sword- growling in challenge and setting his shoulders like the idiot was going to _tackle_ whatever nightmare monstrosity stepped out- A wash of flame poured over the thing from somewhere behind it, cherry bright and molten hot.

The smell of burning carapace and hair reached them through the portal, the shrieking of demons climbing to a fevered pitch as the thick meaty sounds of a sword followed. Someone shouted, gasping, and-

-Solas dodged forward, frowning and mouth set like he was prepared to _reach_ through and grab, robes blown back like wings-

 

Someone fell through.

 

Two someones, Dorian noted in a clinical kind of shock, even as an arc of lavender lightning leapt from his staff to incinerate the small fear demon that was _literally_ on their heels, pincers piercing almost clean through the boot of the pale-haired figure. He seemed to be supporting his companion, a mess of armor and fur and blood-slick leather.

The two tumbled to the ground almost at Solas's feet, and the white-haired man flipped onto his back almost immediately, teeth bared and glaring at the demons that had begun to pour out.

Cooper charged forward and lopped off a claw that came first, large and dangerous looking enough that Dorian felt a nervous quiver in his throat. Thankfully when he grew nervous he tended to become violent, and the next thing to pop it’s stupid chittering bloody head out at the Inquisitor had it removed with a necrotic pulse of energy. It swelled grotesquely, eyes bulging and rolling gently out of their many, _many_ sockets with little whistles of trapped gas and energy, before exploding spectacularly in a bloody purple mist.

“ _Dorian._ ” Solas yelled reproachfully over the howling of the fade-wind as he stooped to grab the men, casting a shimmering green-blue shield around the three of them. He'd caught a significant amount of the splatter, Dorian noticed cheerfully. A few more demons poured out, but Dorian didn’t even pretend to be sorry, grinning madly and exploding another. Bull laughed delightedly as the black and red spray misted across the room and chopped the remaining two in half with two quick economic motions of his axe, reaching one great hand down to scoop the unconscious one of the two men up by the back of his armor, and drag him back in a sliding retreat. Solas got a shoulder under the other who was half on his feet, the elf grimacing under the weight as he took a few steps forward- and giving a stumble as one of those eerily silent Envy demons launched itself onto the glimmering dome of his shield.

It landed like a spider, malformed and stunted limbs combined with the overly long and sharp claws throwing it off balance, and making it easy pickings for Solas. Who left magic out entirely and simply shoved the impressively sharp end of his staff through the things eye as it slobbered onto the surface of his shield.

Cooper shouted angrily, throwing one hand up to shut the portal even as more demons attempted to follow suit, clenching a gauntleted fist and straining so Dorian could _see_ the muscles clenching in his neck, the hunched and painful looking angle of his shoulders. He pulled, and the rift began to close again, stopping the remaining demons that thrust eager unfeeling limbs out to attempt and claw their way out through sheer force of will alone.

 

Solas went down under the combined weight of the demon and the man in his arms even with the staff in the things eye, gasping out in pain. The Envy demon clicked and ground out a strange whirring noise, and struggled with enraged thumps against the shield. Sparks flew, and it ripped Solas’s staff free from the elf’s blood and ichor slick grasp to clatter across the room.

Impressively the shield did not go down, and Solas gathered energy into his palms from beneath it’s safety, no doubt to summon some meteor from the fade to drive the thing through three centuries worth of ancient elvhen architecture, history be damned.

Instead though-

As Dorian swept forward to help a suddenly slumping Trevelyan to his feet, and as Bull heaved the man in his arms up onto his shoulders, making as if to join the fray again with a fully grown man hanging on him like a fur stole-

The white-haired man (human?) Solas was propping up shoved him away, reaching back and drawing a shining blade before the elf had even hit the ground.

He pirouetted, his hips and feet moving shockingly with the same force of movement he’d used to thrust Solas out of the way, and dodged out of the range of those rabid claws as the shield dropped. Instead, his blade went back and forth _literally_ faster than Dorian could blink, and the demon fell in three separate parts with the same sound as someone cutting the flesh of an apple.

The strange man kicked the remains, sending one of the smaller bits skittering away into the dark, and he spit after it, wiping the black away from his mouth with the back of a fist and growling.

 

“Good goddamn riddance.” He gasped for breath, rattling and standing under his own power for an impressive few seconds. Then he began to slump, flinching as Solas moved to catch him. “ _Fuck._ ”

 

There was quiet besides the labored breathing of the six men, a slithering sound of dust settling after the roaring energy of the rift, and the faint liquid sound coming from the second man who Bull was settling gingerly onto the ground. He hoped it wasn't the mans breathing. That wouldn't be good.

 

The white haired man who Solas was helping slowly to sit groaned in pain, clutching at his leg and grimacing. It looked swollen, twisted at the ankle to the point where Dorian wasn't sure how he'd bene walking on it. He said something indistinct in english, mostly sounding like swears as Dorian came closer with a wary Trevelyan, sword still drawn and an icy serious look on his normally cheerful face.

When the man caught his breath he looked Solas over with a careful, intense gaze, pale as a sheet and trembling faintly. He had a sick smell to him that even Dorian could smell, sour. His face was heavily scarred, impressively so, and hair not only pale but a bone white.

And his eyes were a solid yellow, pupils thinning to slits as Trevelyan brought the lit torch closer.

Dorian felt Trevelyan tense next to him, the creak of his gauntlet tightening on his sword hilt almost inaudible in the room as the Templar caught sight of the mutation.

The stranger looked from the Inquisitor, to Solas, and then to Bull, frowning, before he seemed to settle on something, and pushed Solas away from him. “ _Cáelm, n’aen na aâ’anval a me._ ” His voice was raspy as his eyes darted to the archway, unnaturally bright and flicking his gaze down to the sword in the Inquisitor’s hand as if he’d heard it. His voice, almost unnaturally gravelly, was hoarse with pain and what was probably lack of water. He was panting for each breath, and Dorian thought he could see dark tendrils like ink on his skin underneath the grime and blood and sweat, creeping up his neck and into the pale skin of his throat. It almost looked like blight, and Dorian felt a thrill of fear at the thought. “ _Me cara ess-_ ” The man continued after catching his breath, eyes darting over to the man Bull was propping up on the floor. But then he swayed, and slumped over, groaning.

 

Solas didn’t even move to catch him, staring down with a careful blank look on his face that Dorian hadn’t seen before.

 

Dorian didn't say anything as the tension built, waiting for Solas or Trevelyan to say _something._ Was the man a demon? Spirit? Darkspawn? Normal human? Probably not the latter, Dorian decided, if he was poisoned to the point of his blood turning black and had yet to die. Not with those mutations either. He didn't seem like much of a threat at the moment, laying there and gritting his teeth silently in pain. He didn't seem like he could speak much more, but he kept drawing for breath as if he was attempting. "He's been poisoned. By what, I'm not sure." Solas finally said, leaning over him and putting delicate fingers to the mans pulse. He man lay there, barely conscious and panting, holding his left arm and letting Solas do what he will. As if the sentence confirmed they weren't going to leave the two here, Bull leant down and began working his burden's chest plate off, but stopped, frowning.

He cleared his throat, drawing Trevelyan and Dorian's attention, although Solas was busy with white-haired man.

“Uh. So," Bull scratched the back of his head by his horns, seeming lost. "This is Hawke is I’m not mistaken.”

And when Dorian came over to check under all the blood and beard, carefully as Bull was busy trying to feed the unconscious man a potion, he found he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> Headcanons/references/general comments in this;  
> \- I like the idea of DA elves being kind of catlike, because DA 2 veered dangerously close to it with Merrill and Fenris. Just tiny and feral.  
> -On the same note, concept art qunari from DA2. Black sclera and claws and weird dragon skin please thank you.  
> -MY HEADCANON DORIAN is a fussy fashionable magic nerd who's also super morbid. I feel like this is different from most people's characterizations of him, so if anyone has and critiques I'd love to hear them!  
> -If you had Dorian do anything but necromancy you're wrong. Also lightning! I love having an evil mad scientist/night of the living dead vibe with Dorian.  
> -The Aen'sidhe travelled to Thedas ages ago and got stranded there like dipshits in to-be-revealed events, thus the elvish languages are the same. I'm waving my hand here because I know they're distinctively different in canon, just roll with it.  
> -All mages have a different spectrum of magic. Hawke= Gray/Silver; Vivienne=White; Solas=Green; Dorian=Purple;  
> etc. I feel like I'm getting this from a book I've read or movie I've watched or something but for the life of me I don't know what.  
> \- Also this wasn't even originally HAVE Hawke in it for fucks sake. I literally have no idea where he came from. Save Hawke2017 I guess. I originally had like, four chapters written when I started posting, but I hated them all and ended up rewriting a lot of it. :') I have problems with posting things, apologies.


	3. "You'd better understand that, after the introduction you've given me, I don't like the story. But I'll hear you out."  "Without interrupting with spiteful comments?"  "That I can't promise.” ― Andrzej Sapkowski, The Last Wish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A figure began leading them, some time after the third day.

 

Hawke warned him until he was blue in the face that demons in this realm were tricky, incessantly attempting to breach the veil between worlds and draw upon the suffering in the mortal realm. Geralt drew some parallels with specters and some notable monsters, and nodded in weary acknowledgement. Hyms in particular seemed similar to what the sorcerer was describing, and it unnerved him to think of a whole world made of them. Walking curses.

_’Perhaps this is the chaotic realm they come from, originally.’_ The thought was chilling.

But Geralt knew not to ignore a blatant gesture of help when he saw one, and convinced Hawke to follow the figure they could see just barely behind outcropping of rocks, gesturing from high up peaks. She glowed, features indiscernible, and so distant that sometimes even Hawke couldn’t make her out, only Geralt’s eyes picking her from the landscape.

 

It seemed like they trudged after her for days, weak and growing weaker the longer they went without sleep or food. He didn’t know how Hawke did it, impressed every time the man took another step, every time he stumbled and caught himself on either Geralt or his staff, and didn’t collapse to the ground. They talked-

Well, Hawke talked. Geralt listened faithfully. He grew more and more delirious as time went on, calling him Fenris a few times with a frown, eyes fixed on his hair before shaking himself and remembering where he was. He rambled about his brother a bit, and from what Geralt gathered it was a strained relationship. Sometimes he didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone at all, just talking for the sake of talking, his accent growing into a thick brogue Geralt didn’t recognize.

 

Geralt didn’t need to sleep, but eventually they had to stop. It was that or he would be carrying a corpse. Hawke didn’t argue; simply took what rations Geralt gave him and collapsed into a heap. More of a controlled swoon than falling asleep, his eyes rolling concernedly back into his head.

Geralt checked his pulse, made him as comfortable as possible, and sat back to wait with his sword laid across his knees. The chance that they were being led deeper into this realm crossed his mind, a faint frisson of worry making it hard to concentrate on resting.

But with the choice between being lured into a possible trap, or wandering aimlessly until Hawke died and he followed shortly after; He chose the trap.

 

Hawke awoke after what felt like a few hours, although it was hard to tell. Geralt gave him the last of the water, and started on the wine himself, gulping a healthy amount and ignoring Hawke’s delirious chuckles. His liver would counteract the worst of the toxins in the wine, preventing him from getting drunk as quickly as normal humans, and hopefully do at least _something_ to hydrate him.

They pressed on, following the figure that always seemed just over the horizon, and this time they both knew it was better not to stop again. Hawke began to suck on a small smooth rock he’d found before they got too far, and Geralt idly thought that this must not be the man’s first brush with starvation.

 

When they found the gate, it was guarded. Of course.

 

The thing didn’t seem to have a form yet, although it held onto itself much better than the little ones did. As Geralt watched it stretched out one long, clawed, monstrosity of an appendage shaped like a sickle to snatch up one of the little demons. It squealed and struggled, but lightning quick the larger demon bit into it, carapace cracking and ichor dripping down over it’s jaws. It was hard to look at, parts of it bulbous and pulsing and other parts shifting almost like machinery, overlapping and turning as it grew shell and fur and bone in fits and starts. It was half again as big as a horse, and its appendages changed number by the moment.

 

“Fear demon. A major one, not like the little bastards we’ve been running into.” Hawke gasped, out of breath from their climb. Out of breath permanently, it seemed, as his breath rasped in and out without seeming to get any evener. Geralt nodded, peering down at the stretch of land in front of the gate that was milling with the little creatures. He assumed it was why they didn’t take shape when they saw him.

Witcher’s didn’t fear a lot. And since the Wild Hunt was gone, Geralt didn’t fear much of anything.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Hawke gave him an incredulous look. His gaze went from his ankle, up to his wrist, and Geralt made the executive decision to ignore the thick dark eyebrow that raised at him. “You’re in no shape to fight. Don’t argue,” Geralt cut him off before he could open his mouth, weary and feeling the fatigue in his bones.

“We can’t keep going like this. You’re the one who wanted a suicide run.” He pointed out, drawing his sword, and giving it a slick silver shine of spectral oil. He didn’t know what more he could do, since he had no more tawny owl’s, and his remaining bottles of Swallow were more precious than gold at the moment, with nothing to make more.

His wrist wasn’t even useable, numb in the fingers and unable to do more than clench halfway shut. It had been time since he’d broken it- How long, he didn’t know. But he knew from experience and the itchy, hot, infected swelling that it would definitely need to be rebroken. If it could even be salvaged. Worst came to worse, he could shove it in something’s mouth and use it as a placeholder until he can stick something sharp into something vital. Lose the hand, but buy some time.

Hawke’s face grew thunderous.

“Fuck that for a lark. Let me at least-” He pushed himself up, gasping, and Geralt helped him, more curious than alarmed.

“Get me to those rocks- The glowing ones. They’re lyrium. I can at least do _something_. Even if you’re a demon, or a spirit, or Maker forbid, a _hallucination_ -”

Hawke had pointed them out before, outcroppings of glowing blue rock that were almost the polar opposite of dimerterium in nature. Geralt and him had idly made conversation about universal constants and magnetic polarities between long stretches of walking and careful sips of water, before making the executive decision that neither of them were nearly drunk enough for this, and wrote it off as sheer coincidence.

 

He’d also said something along the lines of it not worth blowing his heart out of his chest for the sake of a little pick me up. Not in his weakened condition.

 

They got to the rocks after a struggle across the rocky ground, Hawke losing breath to talk before they’d hardly walked three steps. The minerals were surrounded with a similar veil of the fossilized vines and plant life that Geralt had noticed around the gate, crumbling in spots and without a drop of moisture in them. He’d tried.

Hawke pushed himself free and controlled his fall enough to get near them, pale as a sheet and trembling.

“I’m Garrett fucking Hawke. I saved Kirkwall.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, heaving himself up on an elbow and pushing Geralt fitfully away. He went, still holding his hands anxiously out, watching as Hawke’s skin grew pale and his eyes went unfocused, as if concentrating. “I fought the Arishok, I got my family title back, I dethroned Meredith. I’ll be _fucked_ if I let some upstart little fear demon kill my imaginary friend.”

Geralt tried not to let himself look touched. He was.

 

Hawke put a hand on the lyrium. The glow grew supernova bright, swirls of energy arcing up like little fingers to wrap around Hawke’s grimy hand, traveling up the corded muscle of his forearm and under his furred breast plate. It looked like the slowest lightning strike, a shimmer that caused Geralt to squint.

 

For a moment Geralt thought Hawke was going to die for his rousing little speech.

 

His heart stopped beating; he heard it stop. His mouth went slack and eyes lit up in a cerulean glow like a lightning storm, spine tightening like a bow, arching back until Geralt thought something might snap. The cords in his visible forearm clenched like a seizure, teeth clenching hard enough he worried the man might bite his tongue off. Geralt didn’t touch him, but hovered in tense anticipation, ready to catch him should he fall.

(He didn’t think his heart would _actually_ burst out of his chest, but the concern was more present than Geralt would like.) 

The lyrium lost it’s glow after a few erratic pulses, and Hawke’s heart resumed beating, almost thunderously loud to Geralt’s ears as he slumped over the stones, panting. It was almost lost under the pulse and thrum of magic fizzling and popping off of the points of Hawke’s armor, his fingertips, hair moving in an invisible breeze. Despite himself Geralt felt relief loosen his shoulders, and unclenched his hand where it had fisted by his side.

 

Amazing how attached you got, when you carried someone leagues over the surface of an alien planet following a ghost.

 

Hawke pushed himself up, gingerly, as if worried he might pop, grabbing his staff and giving Geralt a wide toothy grin from his knees. His pupils were huge inky pools surrounded by bright lyrium blue, and his trembling had returned with more force than before, a manic edge to his movements that made them jittery. Blood pooled where he’d laid, but Hawke seemed uncaring of the crimson stain spreading down his entire left side, dripping onto his greaves, aggravated by the clenching of his muscles. Stitches Geralt had put in ripped clean out.

 

“Alright, Geralt. Let us commence the suicide run.” He managed to say, with slow, courtly dignity.

 

Geralt drew his sword and gave him a firm nod.

 

There really wasn’t much else to say, besides, “Hope we don’t die.”

Hawke turned and walked to the outcropping of rock that overlooked the gate, drawing screeches of recognition and a roar of rage from the giant monster below. There were no clouds to gather, no ominous rumble of thunder. But as a connoisseur of magical dramatics Geralt thought the way Hawke’s staff lit up, and the way he threw his head back and laughed carelessly, readying a supernova fist of gravitational energy in his hands-

It looked pretty good.

It reminded him again of Yennefer, and he shook his head, idly wondering if she’d miss him. She’d be pissed, make no doubt, and he was certain she’d eventually track him down wherever he’d gone. There was nothing Yennefer couldn’t do if she was spiteful enough.

 

“If we don’t die here nothing can kill us my friend.” Hawke said with a sigh, almost like relief.

 

Geralt drew a quen shield around himself, threw a dimerterium bomb down into the shrieking hoard of demons, and lunged down to start killing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> What's up guys I'm clandestineclairvoyant and I have anxiety and posting stuff is REALLY HARD FOR ME SOMETIMES. But honestly every comment you leave means a lot, even if I don't answer. I'm balls deep in FFXV right now, working on a thing, as well as tinkering with my other WIP's that languish here. But the Witcher works so well in Dragon Age I can't leave it well enough alone.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
>  
> 
> Hey you know what I need? ANOTHER WORK IN PROGRESS. And also ANOTHER CROSSOVER. I'll stop making them when they stop being so easy. I know I actually have real people subscribed to me who expect- Actually I don't know what you people come here for, I'm a disaster when it comes to consistency.  
> I know I say this every time, but this has even less editing than usual so if you notice any mistakes, I'd love a point out!
> 
> EDIT: I realize I should add some context for my DA playthroughs.  
> Origins: Alistair marries Anora, my mage human Warden romances Morrigan and sacrifices himself.  
> DA2: M!Hawke, forcemage, absolute shit at healing and all around swell guy. Romanced Anders and killed Anders. Tragic. Templar!Carver.  
> Inquisition: M!Trevelyan, Templar warrior. All sorts of head canons about him being with the chantry and being a big old friendly goon to Dorian, who doesn't understand why all the other mages are so scared of this big Templar he'sjustapuppyreally-


End file.
